


and we keep living anyway

by stormwarnings



Series: tolkien gen week 2020 [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Day Six, Gen, Group, Sad, Sort of? - Freeform, Tolkien Gen Week, but like, happy family feels, just watched hamilton so wait for it was the background, lil bit more poetry than prose but ya know, maglor-study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25210567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormwarnings/pseuds/stormwarnings
Summary: Maglor couldn’t really tell if it was his dream, or someone else’s. He didn’t know if he’d started having it because of one of his family members (what family had he left – Artanis? the rest went on, long ago) or if it had started because of a vision.
Relationships: Maglor | Makalaurë & Sons of Fëanor
Series: tolkien gen week 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820518
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40
Collections: Tolkien Gen Week 2020





	and we keep living anyway

**Author's Note:**

> day six of [tolkien gen week](https://tolkiengenweek.tumblr.com/) almost done!!! here have some Sadness lmao (mostly inspired by the fact that i also have sixteen cousins, and we are very musical, and we tend to sing a lot together)

Maglor had this dream.

He couldn’t really tell if it was his dream, or someone else’s. He didn’t know if he’d started having it because of one of his family members (what family had he left – Artanis? the rest went on, long ago) or if it had started because of a vision.

There was also the truth that Maglor could no longer tell what was real, and what was not. He was fading, losing his grip. The sea, the sea, she that he had spent so much time around; the world was beginning to look like the sea, currents and layers and waves, premonitions and memories and visions flowing all around him, until he didn’t know where he was (until he didn’t know _when_ he was).

Perhaps it wasn’t a dream. But he could not hope that it was a vision, and his grasp on his memories he had not yet lost (or had he? did he know, anymore?) so it must be a dream.

It had to be a dream.

It was kind, far kinder than Maglor could ever deserve, and yet it never left him, every night as he slept (did he know what sleep was, anymore? didn’t sleep mean _rest_?) and then left him to wake, tears dripping from his eyes.

It went like this.

Elegant buildings, green hills, a golden sunrise (nothing like the world that broke around him) – a land he left behind, long ago. And silver swells (the sea, the sea, the first kinslaying and the burning of the ships and the rape of Sirion, the sea, that fickle lady, she whom had taken the Silmaril and deserved it more than he) that he had known so well when he was young, before he left it all (before he lost it all).

But he was there, there on the docks, and the world was bright, not bloody; delicate, not dark.

And it came, always: “Makalaurë!”

Little Artanis, no longer little. Golden waves of hair, all too like Findaráto, and oh, did it feel right to hear that name again, to hear that language again. She swept towards him, and into his arms, and it felt realer than most of his world did, nowadays.

“Makalaurë, come, they are waiting. You have kept us waiting!”

“Of course, Artanis,” Maglor said, and she led him by the hand, running and laughing and (was this a dream? was this a memory?) smiling. “Who is waiting?”

Instead of responding, she led him to a courtyard, and there they all were, and (Maglor knew this to be a dream, because his family had never been able to coexist all together, not without the earth shattering and blood raining from the sky) they all _smiled_ at him.

He would never deserve this. He had never deserved this.

There was Ambarussa, braiding each other’s hair, and Arakáno’s too. Artanis, walking over to Írissë (two women among the men, and it seemed that even when the world had broken, their combined might would still be greater than all the brothers) with a gentle nod to Írissë’s fiercely proud smile. Írissë, leaning against the wall next to Tyelko, who no longer had that harsh light shining in his eyes. And Moryo and Curvo, troublemakers always, but never again with the rage and shadow that had once filled their hearts. Findaráto, strumming a harp and singing with Angaráto and Aikanáro, jumping up as soon as Maglor entered, ready to offer him a spot. Turukáno and Findekáno, the latter’s eyes always following a certain redhead with a faint smile, one that he and Maglor both knew the meaning of.

And then the redhead. “Káno,” Maitimo said, with a smile and a proud demeanor and a right hand, holding it out to Maglor. When he took it, Maitimo pulled him into a hug, the brother that he had never left behind (not even when they knew it would be their final stand) and said, “It is good to have you home.”

“Nelyo,” Maglor returned, with only hope that his voice wasn’t shaking. “It is good to be home.”

There came Curvo and Moryo. “You did take your time, brother,” Curvo said.

Moryo added, “Even longer than Nelyo, and that’s saying something.”

Maglor laughed, and then raised his voice. “Tyelko, won’t you come give me a hug?”

Tyelko scoffed, across the room, because Tyelko had never given Maglor a _hug_ , but (there had never been much love between them anyway) they knew that they loved each other anyway.

Findekáno joined them, and said, “I believe you ought to relieve Arto of his duties, or Angaráto may relieve him of his hands.”

“Yes, sing,” called Artanis. “You always were better than Arto.”

Findaráto sputtered, but he was good-natured and (hadn’t he been a good king?) he let Maglor take the seat by the instrument, and then he began to sing.

And the Eldar – all of what they were was music. The great music, that which had created them. The smaller music, that of the trees and the stars and the stones. And the music that made up them all, the bonds of harmony that pulled them together.

So Maglor began to play, and he joined his voice with Findaráto’s, and soon they two were not the only ones singing. Soon they all were, Ambarussa laughing as Moryo sang with trembling vibrato, Artanis closing her eyes and trilling the upper part with Írissë, Findekáno singing the high as Maitimo sang the low.

And together the chords blended, complementary and strong and cohesive, and Maglor thought that he had never heard music so beautiful, and a tear dripped into his lap as he raised his voice to sing deep on the last word.

They finished, and the laughter started again, and then a bell came ringing, from deeper in the city.

“Dinner!” Angaráto announced gladly, and stood to lead the procession of family out of the courtyard.

Maglor hurried to put away the harp as all his cousins left, worried that such a fine instrument might get damaged by the rain. “Maitimo,” he called. “Won’t you wait for me?”

Maitimo was the last to leave. He turned to Maglor, and his eyes shone. “Always,” he said. “Always we will wait for you, Makalaurë.”

Then he turned and walked away, and all faded to grey, and the last thing Maglor saw was the red of his brother’s hair.

He cried out in desperation, “No!” But it was too late, and he awoke again, his cheeks wet, tears beaded in his lashes, and there was the sea, stealing from him all the tears he would ever shed.

And he was no longer surprised, because what was left, when he could no longer tell what was real and what was not (no wonder he was fading, when his grasp on time was barely there).

The men had it all wrong. (Elros had it all right.) Dying was no curse. Living forever was no blessing. Dying gave an end, to things. Living forever (with his ghosts) gave no respite, and it never would.

Living forever with his ghosts, who would ever show him what he would never have.

**Author's Note:**

> leave some kudos if you liked it! come find me on [tumblr](https://stormwarnings.tumblr.com/) :)


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